


my love will not yield (and your body is not a dream)

by sinningjul (Julx3tte)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Smut, But Taken Seriously, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Kinktober, Post-Canon, Threesome - F/M/M, check a/n for sex tags, divine pulse gone wrong, is it selfcest if you have a threesome with yourself?, oh no theres 2 of me trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:41:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27259618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julx3tte/pseuds/sinningjul
Summary: He’s been gone for weeks -- sent away on a diplomatic mission and hasn’t sent word back for two days. Ingrid would have been stalking around the throne room had Felix not been sending her updates by the hour from the palace’s war room telling her that he was fine, that he would be coming home soon.Sylvain returns home from a diplomatic mission gone wrong... safe, sound, and surviving an accident with time magic. Ingrid makes do.Or: I set out to kill the Slyvgrid server.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Sylvain Jose Gautier/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 9
Kudos: 22





	my love will not yield (and your body is not a dream)

**Author's Note:**

> someone put "chef's choice" in my kinktober request form. i decided to go with murder. RIP to the sylvgrid server
> 
> sex tags  
> \- threesome  
> \- self-cest??  
> \- spitroasting  
> \- facefucking  
> \- edging  
> \- oral sex  
> \- PIV sex  
> \- finish in vagina  
> \- dirty talk  
> \- rough sex
> 
> & these requests:  
> \- chef's choice  
> \- sylvain being out of contact and returning home  
> \- dirty talk
> 
> ty to sinni for the beta

Ingrid has one hand in her hair and one hand between her legs when she hears the door swing open downstairs and Sylvain’s voice calling out for her. The way she winds the blonde strands around her palm is but an imitation of Sylvain’s touch, and she’s so wracked with nerves that she thinks his voice is just her imagination till she hears him walking up the steps towards their bedroom. 

The finger she’s slid elegantly inside herself is a pale catharsis. A week she’s held the weight of being asked to leave the room when they discussed Sreng - a week of her shoulders hunched up to the sides of her neck and her back tight and hunched every hour of the night that she woke in a panic. A familiar exhaustion’s set to her bones, the kind she carried late into the war and hoped to never hold again. 

But the news hit that Sreng was in  _ civil unrest _ once more, and Sylvain was at the heart of it, and how else did her body know to manage danger? 

He’s been gone for weeks -- sent away on a diplomatic mission and hasn’t sent word back for two days. Ingrid would have been stalking around the throne room had Felix not been sending her updates by the hour from the palace’s war room telling her that he was fine, that he would be coming home soon.

She whispers Sylvain’s name as she grinds her palm into her clit, and the small aches that have built have become familiar again. Ingrid’s used to the weight of other’s lives. As Commander Galatea, she daily sacrificed the lives of the Pegasus Corps. for victory, held the lives of her friends loosely in case of the worst.

Now, as General Galatea, it lingers in the tiredness in her legs that won’t dissipate, despite the long, warm bath she’s taken already. The anticipation of Sylvain coming home built as she bathed, and it’s funny how Sylvain’s vices have become her own in marriage.

But without Sylvain home to warm her bed and hold her by the waist and drag his lips on her neck every morning, Ingrid’s left in her own hands. 

There’s a knock on her door that she isn’t even sure is real, and Ingrid buries her face into his pillow. It’s the scent of him that she misses the most - the musky, sweet cologne and how it seeps into their sheets at night. The way he sounds when he’s by her side. Ingrid does her best to simulate it, knees spread apart, weight resting on her shoulders, breath shaky.

She doesn’t recognize the knock till she’s come down from quivering over Sylvain’s half of the bed. It’s a single rap on the door again, and she calls for him. 

“Sylvain?” The door opens to reveal her husband’s crimson head, hair smoothed back. Her face is flushed pink and her lungs are sucking in air, but she turns to face him and smiles wider than she’s smiled all month. That he smiles back sends a surge of heat through her stomach. 

“You’re home.”

Sylvain walks slowly into their bedroom, sets his bag down on the floor, and sits on the bed, and the relief in her gut twists. 

Somethings' wrong, based on the way he’s moving. Something’s happened. Ingrid sits up, pulling the sheets to cover her body and wipes her finger with her shirt before leaning towards Sylvain to kiss him on the cheek and put a hand on his thigh. His fingers wrap around her palm instantly. 

“You okay?” she asks, unsure if she wants to hear the answer. She gets a deep sigh in response.

“There was an accident Ing,” he begins. Sylvain must notice the alarm on her face, because he quickly adds, ”but I’m fine.” 

“An accident?” she asks. Her eyes flit over his body, checking for injuries or bandages anyway, and Sylvain sits up straighter.

“I… yeah. Take a breath,” he says. “Byleth got us out of there, but… well, it’s better to show you.”

She raises an eyebrow as Sylvain stands and opens the door wider. It’s as if her eyes are playing a trick. Sylvain’s holding the door open inside the room, but there’s another Sylvain in the hallway. They’re both wearing the same diplomatic uniform, still dirty from the travel. The one in the hallway is wearing his jacket, but apart from that, they're completely identical. 

“Oh,” Ingrid whispers. She pulls the sheets up higher and rolls her back against the headboard, catching that both of their eyes snap to the still-flushed skin below her neck. Her fingers grip the sheets underneath the blanket she’s keeping folded up on top of her, and she crosses a foot over the other.

_ He’s safe _ , she thinks, taking a deep breath to steady herself. _ He’s present and he’s here and there’s….  _

“Yeah,” the Sylvain in their bedroom says, smiling, running his hand through his hair. “Totally fine.”

“There’s two of you,” Ingrid says. Confusion sets in over the relief - the wrinkles above her eyes, above the headache she nursed last night, return as she thinks about how it could even be possible for two Sylvains to return home to her. 

Sylvain, the one closer to her, shrugs and holds a finger up. “Just one of me. Technically. And one of me from about 30 seconds before things got chaotic.”

“Oh.”

“Byleth’s  _ Divine Pulse _ went wonky,” the second Sylvain added from the hallway. He takes a small step closer to the door and glances at Ingrid. She lifts her chin at the mention of Byleth’s time magic - the divine power was for emergencies, Sylvain had been in an emergency that needed rescuing, and Ingrid’s hand grips around her imaginary lance in her bed as her body tenses. 

The questions leaves her before she can stop to consider whether she even wants to know:

“Is this forever?”

Sylvain, the one by the door that didn’t enter the room first, shakes his head. 

“No. I’ll be gone in the morning.”

It’s the thought that Sylvain - any of him at all - disappearing that decimates her. That this Sylvain would say goodbye to her tonight, and that she would never see him again. Ingrid forces a breath and her lungs feel like iron. The hairs on her arms raise as if danger had arrived and both Sylvain’s catch the way Ingrid lets the blanket drop as she sits up taller, tensing her body to move. 

It’s an involuntary response, that the adrenaline rushes through her, making her blood run cold and her stomach prepared for death. The two Sylvains walk into the room and the double smile they level brings her heartbeat to a slow, crushing throb. She forces herself to breathe again, and when she blinks her eyes open, the skittish look on Sylvain’s face has been replaced. 

“Don’t worry, we’ve been… talking about this.” Sylvain says, the first one, who’s come to sit on the side of the bed.

There’s a look Sylvain sends that only comes out when he’s about to say something that sends Ingrid’s heart into knots and her skin into goosebumps. His eyes narrow so that she can see the crow’s feet he’s started to show, and there’s a glisten to his lips that draws Ingrid’s eye even when she tries to pry them away.

She’s forgotten her body’s just come down from having a finger buried inside of herself thinking about him because she notices a rush of air by her ears, like a cover’s been removed from her them, as Sylvain’s hand reaches out to touch her knee over the covers. 

“You have?” she questions, and the second Sylvain, Syl, she decides, stands behind Sylvain and puts his hand on Sylvain’s shoulders. 

They’re both shooting her a look and the weight of their gaze makes Ingrid look Syl in the eye, raising her chin and exposing her neck more to their hungry eyes. 

“Don’t worry, we don’t, like, share feelings or anything,” Sylvain adds, thumb pressing into the soft muscle just above her knee. 

Syl licks his lips and Ingrid’s breath catches. 

“But I figured if we just fuck you through the night you’ll sleep right through me disappearinng.”

Sylvain nods at his mirror. “A damn good idea to be honest with you.”

Ingrid lets herself consider how it would feel to have  _ two _ Sylvains on her body, and her legs clench at the thought. She can barely handle one on a good day - and a half hour ago she could barely handle the thought of him. 

Neither of htem have moved and it feels like her body’s on fire already. They’ve barely started  _ looking _ at her. Neither of them have stripped, and suddenly Ingrid is reminded that she’s naked under the blankets, and there are two of her husbands barely restraining themselves before her.

She can tell that they’re just trying to keep themselves together. Syl’s hands are gripped tight on Sylvain’s shoulders, and Sylvain’s hand is shaking slightly as he strokes higher up on her leg.

“So what do you say?” Sylvain asks.

Ingrid barely has time to nod before they descend on her.

Sylvian’s body presses against hers, and the scent she’s missed for weeks fills her senses. His hands reach to cup her face, the feeling of his lips has Ingrid sighing as she lets him push her back into the headboard. Sylvain comes to a straddle on top of her, attention occupied as Syl crawls around to the side of her.

Syl’s hands are the adventurous ones. As Sylvain kisses her, weight pinning her legs to their bed, Syl’s hands drag underneath the sheets. The coarse palms against the bare, cold skin of her thigh makes her neck blush - Syl traces a finger in a line from the side of her knee to where her butt meets the mattress. He’s slow, gentle, but as Sylvain pulls back to get his hand tangled in her hair, Syl’s hand juts underneath her, grabbing her ass and making her yelp into Sylvain’s mouth.

They both have the same damn smile. It’s obvious they’ve planned this much of the encounter, and Ingrid doesn’t expect the way Sylvain sits up so that they can pull her to the center of the bed. One Sylvain presses up on each side of Ingrid, and her hands instinctively cup the back of their heads.

Both of them look at her with hungry eyes and Ingrid feels the damp heat grow between her legs. 

She was already thinking about having Sylvain come home to the sight of her blushing and out of breath, but kissing two of him has her panting and breathless.

On her right,, Syl ghosts a finger over her ribcage and cups her breast, nipping her neck at the same time. Ingrid barely has time to lean towards his touch when Sylvain bites down on her sternum, sucking the skin and releasing with a soft  _ pop _ . Her eyes snap to the red blemish he leaves behind, then to the satisfied, smug grin on his face. 

They take turns, vying for her attention, and Ingrid’s hips are moving on their own, desperate for one of the sets of hands to turn their focus to where she needs it. Sylvain scratches the tops of her thighs with his nails and Ingrid’s grip on the back of his head tightens, but her groans lead to nothing further. Syl turns his body to his side so that one hand can palm her ass and the other can cup her jaw, turning her face away from him as he kisses her neck, and doesn't even pretend to notice her whine when neither of his hands move lower down her body. 

The worst is that both of them are still clothed. Sylvain’s not even underneath the sheet yet; their breath is hot enough to make the thin top sheet feel too heavy on her body. The heat from their bodies is soothing, and their touches work the tired knots in her body closer to relaxation. But none of them touch below her navel, and Ingrid’s missing the way her fingers were curled inside of her just minutes ago. 

“Please,” she eventually says in a whimper. “Sylvain….Syl…”

Two pairs of hazel eyes meet hers, along with two identical grins. “Yes?” Syl asks. 

Sylvain’s lips nibble on her earlobe and pull it, and Ingrid squeezes her legs together as his hum rumbles low in her ear, “Hmmm?”

Ingrid brings her hips up off the bed so she’s perfectly clear about what she’s asking them to do. She has to keep her thighs clenched together to keep what little grazes she can muster from dissipating, and she twists on her heels when Syl’s hand squeezes her ass, sending another burning wave between her legs.

“I thought you were going to fuck me,” she says, not caring if her voice comes out uneven. 

Sylvain just shrugs next to her.“Oh that will happen,” he says. “Not to worry.”

Most of Ingrid feels impatient, but there’s a part of her that’s relieved that Sylvain’s promise to fuck her thorugh the night is a real one. The shock of two Sylvains walking through her door hasn’t worn off and might never, and the passion that’s manifested above her weeks of worry is a temporary one. Tomorrow, she’ll cry into Sylvain’s arms and let her fear of losing him wash over her like a wave. There’s a lot to tell him, a lot to ask, and now that he was home again she would spend as much time as she could in their normal.

Tonight, though, that the two Sylvains are making her the focus of the night is eroding away the thought of Sylvain disappearing before her eyes. Even if the other is there to hold her, the idea is too much to linger on, and that his first thought arriving home is to make love to her upholds that she was right to worry - and right to wait for him in her heated need, counting the hours down until he was home. 

But Sylvain - and Syl - are far too clothed and far too far away for her liking.

Her body writhes between them - Syl’s kissing the top of her breast, body half straddled over her leg, chest against her arm, while Sylvain’s exposed the expanse of her neck so he can kiss the skin just underneath her ear. Her arms are trapped against her body, and each touch makes her fingers curl and grip and pull on the sheets of the bed. Her feet push against each other, locking her knees and thighs together as a hand finally brushes over her hip bone, and the sensation makes her shiver. 

The feeling of want between her legs is almost unbearable. 

“Sylvain, please,” she tries again, voice low and throaty, and again both of them turn to look at her. “At least strip,” she adds quickly before they can ignore her again.

They look at each other, and Sylvain points at Syl. “You keep your shirt on.”

Syl nods, and they both pull away from Ingrid to sit on their knees. Sylvain strips his shirt and Ingrid misses his body against hers already; a cold draft passes through and Ingrid feels her nipples pinching into peaks.

_ At least _ , Ingrid thinks,  _ they're just as turned on as I am _ . She can see the bulge on the front of their pants as she watches Syl groan while he brushes his hand against his it, quickly unbuttoning his trousers and pulling his pants down to his underwear.

“Like what you see?” Sylvain says, taking off his pants and leaving both Sylvains in just smallclothes.

“What do you want us to do?” Syl asks, biting his lip.

The Sylvains are still identical. His broad, strong chest and shoulder muscles, remnants of their time on the battlefield, have the beginnings of sweat, and Ingrid traces the collarbones from one body to the other. Sylvain’s core is taut and pronounced, and Ingrid almost wants to use her foot to feel the muscles underneath his skin.

She kicks off part of the sheets so that her feet are free, and Sylvain’s hand goes to her ankle immediately.

Ingrid has a thought, watching them eyeing her, following every bit of exposed skin on her body. The sheet is wrapped around her waist and legs, just above her stomach, and the thought of them peeling off the sheets and finding her nakedness makes the muscles around her hips clench.

The thought is: there’s forever and always for Sylvain to fuck her, for her to have Sylvain in between her legs. But there’s only one night to watch Sylvain get himself ready for her. She can feel the smile growing on her face, and the Sylvains must notice too because both of their eyebrows quirk up.

“Got an idea there, Ing?” Syl asks, and Ingrid nods happily.

“In a minute one of you needs to eat me out, but before that…” Ingrid trails off as she licks her lips and Sylvain lets out a deep hum.

“Before that?” he asks, and he and Syl exchange glances.

“I want to see you kiss him,” Ingrid says, and both of them grin.

Watching Sylvain make out with himself has never been on Ingrid’s list of fantasies. Sylvain’s a fantastic lover, accommodating and experimental. But she never expected him to be so into his double. Syl’s hands wrap around Sylvain’s waist, and Sylvain pulls his other self closer by the neck. Ingrid wants to reach out and push them closer to each other until their bodies touch, but she’s enamored enough by the way their lips take turns capturing and being captured.

It’s when Sylvain’s hips start moving and his dick peeks over his smallclothes that Ingrid realizes that her hand has been drawing slow circles just under her belly, drawn to the damp, electric buzz between her legs.

Syl notices, because his hips shift and Sylvain groans into his mouth as their cocks grind against each other through the cloth of Syl’s smallclothes.

Ingrid bites her tongue to keep quiet and keep watching. Her hand slides lower, cupping the inside of her thighs on one side as her thumb brushes just gently against her wetness.

They notice the tiny squeak that breaks free from her mouth, because they stop and look at her, following the arm that’s found its way underneath the sheet.

“Enjoying yourself?” Sylvain asks, lip swollen and red. 

Ingrid shakes her head. “Just… just keep going,” she stammers, legs clenching around her hand as Sylvain starts rocking against Syl, hips just inches apart. “Touch him.”

She doesn’t need to say which she was talking to. Syl, the more clothed, moves behind Sylvain and wraps one arm around his chest and another on his stomach. Syl’s head rests on Sylvain’s shoulder. “Like this?” he asks, and Sylvain leans back into him.

“More,” Ingrid says, sliding a finger inside of herself easily as Syl grips Sylvain’s cock at the base. She imagined his length teasing against her folds, her finger drawing a circle inside of her to stretch her out. The feeling is almost overwhelming, after all of their teasing, and Ingrid has to slow and watch for a few moments so that the growing pressure doesn’t spread past the tops of her thighs too quickly.

_ He must be an expert at touching himself _ , Ingrid rationalizes. She matches the slow drag of Syl’s hand on his mirror’s cock as she pushes her finger inside of her and back out, eyes caught on Syl’s hand on his duplicate’s body. 

Sylvain’s groan is loud and almost as obnoxious as the grin on Syl’s face when he realizes that Ingrid’s matching his pace. The silence in the room is perforated by Sylvain’s breathy  _ mmmm _ and Ingrid’s own huffs, but Syl is silent as he focuses. Ingrid bites down on her lip as Syl’s hand, cupping Sylvain from the bottom side of his length, draws his palm from the base to the tip. Ingrid tries to imagine the feeling of Sylvain fucking her in the same slow pull, and jams another finger inside herself to make up the difference.

She’s wet enough that Sylvain can hear the sounds of her through the thin sheet, and she wonders if Sylvian’s getting close. She doesn’t want him to, not yet, but she won’t complain about the memory. But after a few more strokes, Sylvain taps Syl’s arm, and he releases him, drops a kiss on Sylvain’s neck, and they both crawl to either side of her. 

It’s the feeling of two Sylvains pressed up against her side, one cock in each hand grinding against her that makes Ingrid stare at the ceiling and think about how exactly she’s gotten herself into this situation. The two Sylvains are kissing her neck in all the right spots: one pair of lips biting the crook where her neck meets her shoulder and the other just under her jaw, pulling the soft skin underneath her jawbone.

Their bedroom’s ceiling is plain, warm white paint with an equally warm crowning separating the wood from the brick that makes up their walls. Sounds echo in their bedroom; it’s not so large that the sounds diffuse away against the uneven brick.

Ingrid can hear every groan and sigh Syl and Sylvain make as their hips thrust into her hands, out of rhythm. She does the best she can to keep her hands gripped around them, but there’s heat between her legs that she thinks might explode even without Sylvain’s weight against them, and it’s easy to be distracted.

How she’s missed this - the needy, vocal passion that Sylvain has. They’re uttering words every now and then, which echo against the walls too:  _ you feel so good Ing. I can’t wait to fuck inside of you, how wet you are for me _ , and in her other ear,  _ I’m going to take your hot little mouth while Sylvain fucks you from behind _ , Ingrid.

It’s not a threat or a promise, just fact. Just twenty-four hours ago Ingrid was worrying about the chance that she might never have him again, that she’d lose a second partner in as many decades, and now it’s as if the goddess is making up for it by giving her double of him.

Sylvain slides over so that he’s in between her legs, out of reach of her arms, and kisses the center of Ingrid’s chest before she can do anything about it and her hips buck up to his stomach. Syl’s head moves over hers so that all she can see is his needy eyes, and lowers himself so he can kiss her mouth as Sylvain’s mouth kisses the side of her stomach, first, then the tops of her hips. He yanks the blanket off Ingrid and she lets out a  _ mmm _ right into Syl’s mouth.

Syl pulls away and bites her ear while Sylvain’s spread her legs and nestles his head in between, still too many inches away from her center. He blows against her gently, earning a whine as Syl whispers exactly what Ingrid needs to hear.

“I missed you so much,” he says, breath hot and  _ close _ and soft. “Every day all I could think about was when I’d get to go home to you.”

Sylvain chimes in between nipping the inside of her thigh, almost speaking into her skin. “I’m sorry I scared you Ing. I’m here. Let me make it up to you.”

He scarcely gets the words out before his lips slide up, leaving a wet trail from the inside of her leg all the way to her cunt; Sylvain gives her a long, satisfying lick as she arches her back, tension coiling in her belly as he hums against her “ _ Mmmm _ .”

He licks another stripe along her folds, her gasp catching in her throat as Syl whispers into her ear again. “That means you taste delicious Ing,” he says, and Ingrid’s other hand finds its way into Sylvain’s hair and shoves him into her pelvis till she’s sure he can’t breath. Syl pulls himself away from her hand and sits on his knees next to her, half draping an arm around her shoulders so he can cup the side of her breast.

“And that,” he says, as Sylvain manages to pull away enough to suck in a huff of air, “means we’re going to ruin you tonight.”

He dips back down to take her in his mouth, and lighting trapped in her belly breaks free as his tongue passes over her wet, feverish folds. 

All of the sensations across her body make it easy to come. Their hardness in her hands, and the rough way Syl grabs Ingrid’s breasts; Sylvian’s tongue like a quill, composing at a furious pace, and his hands cupped around the backs of her legs. His messy hair and Syl’s mouth exhaling hot hair right behind her ears - it’s too much.

Ingrid screams and hears herself against the stone walls and is thankful that they’re alone in the house as her body erupts. She can’t control the shaking - Sylvain pulls away to check and she shoves his face back in between her legs until she’s done. Her legs are weaker than she remembers - lifting them is heavy and Sylvain has to pick them up with his hands until the clench in her stomach releases enough for her to breathe.

It’s Syl’s hand that helps her come back to focus - a steady touch to help her find her breath and whispered encouragements about how  _ she’s doing so good, now breathe _ . Ingrid lets her body follow the words and bites her lip when she sees Sylvain’s messy face, hazel eyes meeting hers from between her thighs.

“Gorgeous,” he says, and Ingrid nearly blushes.

It’s not that she particularly cares for the praise - but her particular mix of emotions tonight, from worry to relief and shock to sehnsucht, has her heart lifted higher than it’s been since maybe when Sylvain finally asked her to marry him. Somewhere between elation and lust, the inside of Ingrid’s ribs can feel the spot that would have been void had her worst fears come to life.

All of this and the tiredness in her muscles from a second orgasm in an hour makes Ingrid sink down into the bed. Sylvain wipes his face with something and they both pull her into their arms.

“Need a break?” Sylvain asks, as Syl brushes a stray strand of hair out of her eyes.

“Just water,” she says, and Syl gets up to fetch it. “Not done yet though,” she adds.

“I’ll stay,” Sylvain just says. “I’ll stay with you forever.”

Ingrid nods into his arms and wonders what else they have planned for the night. 

* * *

Sylvian’s voice is a low vibrato against Ingrid’s forehead, face tucked into the crook of his neck just against his voice box. Ingrid’s still a bit shaky and out of breath, and having just one of Sylvain’s arms around her proper helps to soothe and steady her lungs.

“Doing okay Ing?” he asks, hands coming to clasp together behind her shoulders, pulling her into his body. This Sylvain’s the one that will remain tomorrow, so Ingrid lets herself get pulled into his warmth and focus on the way his chest rises and falls with each breath against her.

Ingrid nods into his neck again, sighing. The adrenaline from before is gone, and she’s feeling the weary effects of the last two weeks and the two Sylvain’s efforts. The tendons on her hamstrings have gone tight, as if she’s been riding for a day without stopping. Holding them up is going to take more energy now, and Sylvain or Syl are going to have to help her keep her legs up depending on what they have planned for her.

She hopes there’s more. She can take more, even if her body’s exhausted, just to keep the stray thought of Sylvain becoming transparent and then invisible, or even just popping out of existence. If nothing else she’ll give her body for Syl before he’s claimed by whatever magic brought him here in the first place, and Ingrid’s sure Sylvain agrees. 

Ingrid’s arms are doing okay, though. She’s been on her back so far, and can probably hold herself up if her core muscles hold out. Sylvain’s barely broken a sweat, and she thinks about the first time he came to her bed to bring an end to his emotions. They’ve gone a long way since, of putting words to their needs, and of being there for each other, and Ingrid bites down on her lip at the memory, letting her teeth slip till her face is still. 

“He’s you isn’t he?” Fully you?”

Sylvain nods and confirms the worst of Ingrid’s fears, and she feels the heavy, soothing press of Sylvain’s fingers against the back of her shoulders trying to massage the tension away. He did this during the war, too. After battle, or anytime they were separated for too long, he would collect her in his arms till all she could see was his broad shoulders and let her cry while he massaged her.

She hoped that after the war moments like this would come infrequently, but peace has been a hard thing to build, and Sylvain’s brokered more than one treaty in dangerous territories over the last few years. Each trip apart never got easier, but the words they needed to say between them got simpler. 

“Yeah,” he says. His warm breath touches the tops of her shoulders, and Ingrid shudders. “I know it’s been hard waiting and not knowing what happened to me.”

She’s been waiting for this. To be held in quiet, to let her body remember Sylvain, and bring her to peace. But the circumstances are less than ordinary, and Ingrid fights back the tears forming behind her eyes, clenches her fist in her lap and says the words she doesn’t want to say anyway.

“He’s going to die tomorrow. You’re going to-” 

Sylvain cuts her off by pulling her chin up so that he can meet her eyes.

“Let us take care of you tonight,” he says simply, putting an end to the swirl of sadness beating through Ingrid’s chest. It’s something both Sylvains have probably thought about, that she would treat even a copy of him as wholly hers. But in the same way that Ingrid’s heart is ready to burst at the thought of Syl saying goodbye, she knows that Sylvain, even a copy, couldn’t stand not seeing her on his last night.

It’s all he says for a few moments, before Sylvain releases his arms to flip her so that she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, between Sylvain’s legs, facing the door. 

Their home in Fhirdiad is small, in contrast to the massive size of Castle Gautier or Galatea Manor. Two floors, three rooms, and a small sitting room is plenty to occupy. Against the dark wooden floors, Syl’s footsteps are easy to hear, and Sylvain holds her by the waist while she takes the glass of water and drinks half of it while Syl takes a seat on the other edge of the bed.

“Good?” Sylvain asks, and Ingrid nods again. 

“Yes.” 

“Let us take care of you,” Syl says in the same tone as Sylvan, and Ingrid meets his eyes. The half hour difference in time between the two did little to differentiate them, but she catches a hint of the worry he’s probably kept buried in his lungs in the way his eyes blink. There’s a tiredness in his eyelids, as if trapped in place and unmoving. 

Ingrid almost reaches for him, but Sylvain’s arms keep her tight around him and Syl smiles at her knowingly. This must be part of the plan, because Syl sets her glass of water on the nightstand and drops a kiss on her forehead and waits for her to realize that Sylvian’s hips are pressed just against the small of her back. She can still feel him twitching against her skin, hot and stiff and the two handfuls of him she had earlier were nowhere near enough for any of them.

Not for Ingrid, who’s been thinking about him inside of her through the night, and certainly not for either Syl or Sylvain, who’ve watched her come patiently and must need their turn soon. Ingrid licks her lips at the thought of their lengths at her command, and nods to signal that she’s ready again. 

“Something I can do for you?” Ingrid asks confidently, and both Sylvians chuckle. Syl just takes a drink of his own water and takes a seat, but Sylvain’s grip tightens around her, trapping Ingrid against the familiar muscles on his chest. Ingrid’s shoulders roll back against him, and his arms wrap around her, one above her shoulders and one coming to rest at her waist.

“Yes,” Sylvain says, two fingers trailing either side of her collarbone. Ingrid keeps her hands pressed against the bed as Sylvain leans back to kiss the nape of her neck, sending a rush of heat between Ingrid’s legs.

Sylvain’s cock is at attention and twitching against her, and Ingrid can feel the need radiating from Sylvian as he touches her. His hand ghosts the bottom of her breast as a finger inches closer to where her legs meet, and Ingrid squirms in his arms.

The short break’s given Ingrid a chance to catch her breath, but her body’s still very aware of her two naked husbands in the room, and she shivers when Sylvain palms her left breast, over her heart, and kisses the side of her neck roughly. She can feel his eyes passing over her body, thinking about the ways they’ll have her tonight, and Ingrid takes a deep breath in satisfaction.

How long has she waited, worried, sleepless, and cold for him to come back to her like this? After every battle since the war started again, and dozens of trips over the years since, and each time they reunite Sylvian looks at her with the same hungry gaze that drops Ingrid’s heart to her stomach. It’s amazing how she’s learned to need him, and how she’s let herself take their promise to each other so literally.  _ I’ll stay forever _ .

Even if Syl can’t keep that promise now, she would believe in him.

Sylvain takes a handful of her thigh into his palm with a  _ smack _ and Sylvain’s mouth moves higher, kissing behind her ear. Ingrid’s grip on the bed tightens, and  _ finally _ Sylvain passes over a hot finger over her still-slick core, igniting Ingrid’s body again. Sylvain’s tongue darts at her earlobe, and for a moment Ingrid imagines his head in between her legs again.

But it’s Sylvain’s turn now. He glides his finger over her from tip to knuckle, wetting his finger before tilting her head so that he can lick it clean in her sight.

Sylvian’s wet smile sends another wave of heat through Ingrid, and a flush to her chest. Her body, now used to Sylvain’s warmth, shivers when Sylvain pulls away and sits at the head of their bed, back leaning against the headboard.

He reaches for her, hand held out and she turns and shifts until he can reach her. Sylvain’s hands are warm, too - they send red to Ingrid’s cheeks as his hand cups her jaw and pulls her to him. Sylvan’s lips are even warmer, and Ingrid’s body relaxes when he kisses her and she shuts her eyes to enjoy the way Sylvain proclaims his love for her. 

It’s not until Sylvain’s hand finds the back of her head, fingers curling at the hair on the base of her skull that Ingrid opens her eyes again. There’s a glint in his eye as he pulls her away from his lips and pushes her head down toward the crook of his hip. Even before she touches him his cock is twitching, and stiff. Her cheek brushes against it as he guides her mouth to kiss his hip bone, legs spread so that she can lie in between. 

As much as she loves the way Sylvain uses his mouth, the way he reacts when the reverse happens is when Ingrid feels the most power over him.

Ingrid meets his skin with her lips, kissing gently as Sylvain’s free hand grasps the top of her shoulder. Vaguely, Ingrid registers Syl shifting on the bed behind her, but her attention is focused on the way Sylvain brings her head inches from his cock and away again, teasing himself. Sylvain makes her kiss him on the hip again, and then on the inside of his thigh, and even the base of his cock. Each time, Ingrid notes the way his breathing changes. A hitch here, and a catch there, or a change in pressure of his hand. 

Ingrid licks her lips again, wetting them for him and glances up to see Sylvan’s mouth gaped open in anticipation, and the energy builds in Ingrid’s shoulder blades. She’s wet again, and with the way her knees are tucked under her hips, Ingrid wonders if Syl can see it as he watches. 

He finally lets her put him in her mouth as Syl’s hands grasp each side of her hip from behind her. She feels him on the back of her thigh, and keeps her eyes focused on Sylvian as she takes his tip in between her lips with a sharp intake of breath. Ingrid runs her tongue along the bottom of him and earns a deep sigh from Sylvain, whose stomach tightens at her touch.

Ingrid tries to take more of him, but Sylvain’s hand in her hair keeps her in place. When she tries to pull away too much, he pulls her hair slowly till it burns and Ingrid relaxes. It’s frustrating, how slow he’s taking it, when all Ingrid wants to do is make him come and savor the way he loves to beg her name into the air. 

Ingrid settles for reaching with her tongue, sending it past her lips and onto his length, and it’s enough for Ingrid to to huff a sigh of victory as he finally allows her to have more of him.

Sylvain groans again and finally lets her take more of him, until his cock fills her mouth. Ingrid doesn't’ have time to take a breath to prepare herself, and inhales sharply through her nose as Sylvian’s hips jerk into her mouth. He holds her there, pulls to let her breathe, and brings his cock deeper into her mouth again, almost into her throat until Ingrid’s eyes water. It’s only then that Sylvain pulls her up again, hand stroking the top of her head when she looks up in disappointment. 

“I would fuck your gorgeous face but you have other things to worry about right now,” he says with a nod, and Ingrid feels the heat rise to the tops of her shoulders. She’s about to say “please do,” when the sharp sting of a palm smacks her on the ass.

Ingrid yelps Syl presses up against her, his cock hard against the curve of her ass. His hand leaves a red imprint on one cheek and she hears the air whoosh behind her as he delivers a second sting. She yelps again, and Sylvian fills the open gape of her mouth with his length as Syl’s cock slides against her wetness, making Ingrid gasp in satisfaction. She arches her back so that she can find more of his length, and Syl slides against her again. 

The touch is electric - it’s only been minutes, but Ingrid’s body hasn’t forgotten that she’s in the presence of two copies of her husband and she’s  _ burning _ . Syl’s finger strokes her softly, checking that she’s wet enough to take him before he thrusts inside of her all at once. Sylvain’s cock in her mouth is all that keeps her from whining out in pleasure.

Sylvain’s a gentle lover, but there are times when his possessive streak claims him. Ingrid’s secretly loved when Sylvain’s jealous. She’s never riled him up on purpose, or teased him about it, but there’s something in the desperate way he wants her body  _ closer _ and  _ more _ that matches the way Ingrid’s imagined he would touch her when he got home.

Syl fucks her relentlessly, holding her hips by the hinges with his hands, and Ingrid can hear the creak of their bed and the thud of its wooden frame hitting the stone wall behind it with each thrust. He grunts every time he meets her body, his voice echoing through the walls, and each time his cock buried inside of her sends Ingrid’s smaller body bucking right into Sylvain, whose hand on her jaw keeps her steady.

It’s been so long since Sylvain’s been here to give her this. The sounds of Syl’s grunts and Sylvain’s slow “ _ mmm _ ” would have been enough. But the  _ feeling _ of him: filling her and leaving her and filling her again till she can’t remember what it’s like  _ not _ to have Sylvain buried hilt-deep inside of her is what Ingrid’s been craving since she got the news that he was coming home to her.

He’s been in danger, and now he’s home, and that’s all that matters. That Sylvain has two bodies tonight is inconsequential - they fucked after every battle just to remember they were both still alive for a year before it was safe enough to believe that things could be normal again. It's a habit for them, for their bodies, and the second Sylvain, the one that would leave her, was no less of her husband than the other. 

To lose one is too much to lose, and Ingrid feels the building tension in her stomach in between the two. She tries to keep pace, but there’s isn’t time between Syl’s hips thrusting forward, so he holds her in place by the hips and all she can do is grunt and gasp and notice the anticipation building in his body. 

It’s building in Sylvain, too. Sylvain doesn’t do much other than keep her mouth wrapped around him to make sure he stays inside of her mouth, but she can see the way the sound of the bed creaking lights up his eyes, waiting for his turn to trade places. With just the head of him between her lips, hand against the back of her head to keep her still, Ingrid can focus on the feeling of lightning building in her core. 

She can tell Syl is close when his breathing gets ragged. His pace slows down enough for Ingrid to be able to focus, and she clenches around him, feeling the resistance as he slides out of her. Ingrid wants him to continue - to stay inside of her, to take his time and take what he needs, and tries to squirm her hips, missing the feeling of him.

But Syl gives her a small  _ thwack _ on the curve of her ass and uses his hands to flip her, pulling her away from Sylvain so that she’s on her back, head by the foot of the bed. 

_ They’re taking turns with me, _ Ingrid realizes.  _ They’re gonna take me in turns till I can’t handle it anymore _ . 

Syl confirms her hunch as he waits for her to get set into position. His cock is just inches from her mouth, wet with her and throbbing and she opens her mouth so he can slide himself between her lips. 

Ingrid licks him hard, wanting to draw out the same possessive, frantic passion out of him, but Syl remains measured, cupping the side of her face. She glances up at him, head turned to the side, and sees how he’s barely held together. He’s biting his lip hard, and a layer of sweat’s formed on his chest, making him glisten in the low light of the bedroom. 

“You’re doing so good taking me,” Syl says, words broken up by breaths. He’s right on the edge, and Ingrid draws him in, a hand on the back of his hip as an invitation. 

Ingrid lets her lips purse around him, sealing Syl as she laps her tongue over his head and it’s all it takes to send Syl over. His hands grip the sides of Ingrid’s head as he slides himself between her lips, shaking as he comes. Ingrid swallows, licking him clean and smiles up at Syl, who’s shoulders have rolled back in exhaustion.

“You feel so good Ing,” he says, huffing, before collapsing onto the bed next to her. 

Syl’s face is identical to Sylvain’s, but there’s a weary look beginning to form as he closes his eyes to recover that reminds Ingrid of the way they all looked after the war. Ingrid never thought that Sylvain could revert back to how tired he used to be, hips constantly aching, body sweating so far south and away from the cold reaches of Gautier.

But Syl, chest rising and falling, is holding his body differently than Sylvain, whose hands have come around the back of Ingrid’s knees. As if the frenzied, needy way he’s found her body reflects more than just the need to see her.

Ingrid puts the thoughts away as Sylvain piles her legs over each other, left over right so that her hips are turned to the side. She steals a look at him, too, and realizes he’s looking at Syl the same way that she just did. There’s a silent conversation between the two of them the moment before he buries himself inside of her, agonizingly slow.

_ We’re gonna make this last _ .

In contrast to Syl’s pace - the frantic, unsustainable pace as when they threw themself at death daily - Sylvain’s pace is glacial. Where Syl was fanning the flame, Sylvain is content to let her burn slowly, pinning her legs against the bed so her arms can’t reach down and touch herself.

The first few minutes are manageable, but as his cock drags along inside of her too slowly to string together into anything, the whimpers begin to slip out.

Sylvain pretends not to notice the way she jams her fingernails into his hand, tapping to ask for him to fuck her faster, and Syl recovers enough to lay next to her on his stomach, mouth finding the side of her neck. She can hear herself, breath synced to Sylvain’s slow rhythm, and eventually she says his name, just as he slips almost all of the way out of her, cock slick and sticky.

“Sylvain,” she says, pushing her thighs together in an effort to generate more friction than the slow, stretching press of his cock.

“Yes Ingrid?” he says, meeting her eyes. Ingrid throws him her best  _ please, I need you _ face, but Sylvain just snorts, and Ingrid yelps when Syl, bites the side of her breast. He gathers her hands and pulls them above her, using one hand to keep them over her head. 

“I need…” she says, and is cut off with another bite, close to a nipple.

“Need what?” he says. Sylvain’s face is smug, and Ingrid wishes she could wipe the look right off of him. Sylvain plunges deep inside of her again, and she spends her focus squeezing around him. He grunts as he pulls out, pushing her knees harder into the mattress.

It’s maddening. Ingrid can feel the coil in her gut build, and every time Sylvain’s cock is deep inside of her, she can feel what could happen if he would just stay there, bury himself, and wait a second. But he pulls out and she’s empty again before anything can start, and as soon as she tries to whine or say something to him Syl bites down on her chest and she loses focus. 

It’s a process they repeat over and over again, Syl leaving red love bites along one side of her chest whenever Ingrid’s voice betrays her patience. 

_ They’re taking turns with me _ , Ingrid realizes.  _ Syl’s almost up again and they’re gonna fuck me in turns till I can’t handle it any more _ .

It’s frustrating, and at the same time, everything she’s hoped for tonight. To be too tired to wake up, and to give Syl a memory to treasure. To remember him in the morning as she recovers, and to let loose all of the armor she’s built around herself over the weeks of not knowing and let Sylvain see how she’s held herself together.

The way they touch her is soft and teasing and rhythmic. Syl’s hands roam, caressing her waist and the undersides of her breasts, cupping them so he can get a mouthful before retreating up to the sides of her neck. Each mark he leaves is another scale of armor that falls off of her, and his attention to different parts of her torso helps loosen her tired muscles. Ingrid closes her eyes, relaxed.

Sylvian’s hands keep her pinned onto the bed, but as she begins to settle into the equilibrium of the sounds of Syl’s lips sucking on her skin,and scratching the tops of her shoulders, and Sylvain’s languid, heavy cadence, Sylvain frees her leg, spreading her wide.

Ingrid’s eyes fly open as he digs a finger into her clit, sending a jolt through her entire body. The first touch makes her jerk, but Sylvain continues the pressure, and Ingrid’s hips shake around Sylvian, who’s looking far too pleased with himself. His hair is stuck to his face, and there’s still a white streak on the side of his mouth from earlier, and he smirks at her when their eyes meet. 

Sylvain knows how to touch her - he draws circles, teasing her clit out, pinching it with the sides of his fingers till Ingrid’s hip juts towards the pressure. He times the measured push of his cock so that her clit is on fire when he pulls out, and gives it almost too much attention as he’s just starting to fill her again.

The sensations drive Ingrid into a frenzy. Her legs push back against his hands and Sylvain lets her wrap them around his waist and squeeze around his trunk as he comes near.

The feeling builds and builds. Syl’s hungry kisses don’t stop. He pinches her nipple at the same time Sylvain buries himself inside of her, and Ingrid’s shoulders raise up off of the bed in response. 

A little more of Sylvain, a little faster, and she can get there, she can feel her body shaking and demanding it. Her breath becomes a set of staggered gulps, Ingrid opens her mouth to tell him, to ask for it.

Sylvain pulls out of her again and doesn’t return and Ingrid whines at the loss.

Her eyes fly open and she looks at Sylvain in disbelief.

“No,” she says, trying to tug her hands out of Syl’s grasp, “Please.”

“Please what?” Sylvain says, looking over at her. Syl’s propped himself up on his elbows, and his hands are pinching Ingrid’s nipples, each twinge a direct line to Ingrid’s center. 

Ingrid points with her eyes, down at his hands and back between her legs. “I need it,” she demands.

Sylvain licks his fingers “Need what?”

“Make me come!” Ingrid cries, twisting her body. Syl bites the inside of her ear again when she almost wrestles a hand free from him.

Sylvain’s eyes glaze over her body, and Ingrid can feel the heat radiating from his eyes. But he grins, and looks at Syl who clicks his tongue in his mouth and Sylvain leans down so that he can whisper right into her ear.

“No.”

Ingrid squeezes her legs around Sylvain, trying to pull him towards her, but he doesn’t budge, and she realizes what  _ making this last _ meant. 

_ So that’s the plan _ , Ingrid rationalizes. To keep her from getting too tired. They’d withhold climax from her, use her till they’re both satisfied or too tired to keep going.

They’ve done this before - marathoned through the night, taking turns teasing each other until they both needed to eat and sleep. Both still fit enough to go for hours, it would be a sweet rest after the last ounce of pleasure is extracted from her body. 

But tonight is different from the long nights they spent after the war, enjoying the certainty that they would live and could finally love. Tonight Ingrid’s body can only take so much, and she’s not sure how long for. She can feel the her hip joints begin to ache, signaling the end of her being able to take Sylvain and Syl inside of her, and there’s a cramp starting to form behind her shoulder blades. 

Sylvain sinks his hips down again, and Ingrid’s quick hope that he’ll fuck her agian dissipates when he grinds along the outside of her folds only.

“Are you… gonna…. Make me beg…?” she says, voice breaking at each pass. Her hands are shaking in Syl’s, and he releases her wrists and interlaces fingers with her instead. 

Sylvain kisses her on the cheek. “Yes.”

He finally inches inside of her, just the head of him, when Ingrid whimpers again at the feeling of his cock inside of her. Syl’s lips are coarse and grazing over her chest, but Sylvain still towers over her, kneeling on the bed and using one arm to her side to prop himself up. 

“Let me come, Sylvain,” she tries as Sylvain sinks himself and remains there for a few moments, devastatingly still. Ingrid thrusts her hips onto him to try to get some friction, sending a lightning shock through the base of her spine. “I want it, Sylvain.”

“Not yet Ing,” he says. “Syl, tell her.”

Syl over up at her, his body curling so that one of her free legs is trapped under his. He nips the soft flesh just underneath a nipple again before responding. “We said we’d fuck you all night,” he says simply.

“Please,” she asks as Sylvain starts again, now pressing the tip of his finger against her clit. 

“Make you a deal,” Sylvain says, and Ingrid’s eyes light up. Sylvain puts a hand around her jaw, kisses the side of her cheek, and whispers in her ear.

“Let me fuck your gorgeous face and I’ll let Syl get you off.” His voice is a low growl in her ear and Ingrid nods. 

“Okay, yeah,” she says, grinding against Sylvain. “Yeah.”

It takes a moment to reposition so she can take Sylvian in her mouth by the foot of the bed. Syl swaps with Sylvain, using his fingers to tease her. Each circle is an electric shock that sends waves through her body, making it hard to keep her eyes on Sylvain. 

“Just worry about me Ing,” Sylvain says, letting his head slip in between her lips, and Ingrid almost takes him too deep as Syl’s warm fingers slide inside of her, preparing her for him. His cock is salty and slick with her, and she keeps her eyes fixed on Sylvain as he guides himself inside of her mouth. 

It doesn’t take long for Sylvain’s low grunts to turn into deep exhales, and then into her name. “God, Ing, you feel so good,” he says, voice shallow. “So good for me. I’m there.”

Ingrid relaxes as she feels him release, thick on her tongue, body focused on how Syl’s put the tips of two of his fingers inside of her, and Sylvain pulls out as he’s spent. He kisses Ingrid on the forehead and gets onto the bed next her, taking Syl’s place in running his hands on her breast and his lips on her neck.

They must do this intentionally, to let Syl be the last one, because she’s almost at her breaking point. Her mind could hold on, maybe, but her body is tired and ragged and nearly ready for bed. The wrung coil in her stomach is tight and craving release, and Syl’s cock is pressed just at her entrance, hard again. 

She doesn’t love the idea of either Sylvain disappearing. It’s worse than dying, she thinks, to fade knowing that there’s another version of you living the life you lived. She wants to give him a last memory, this version of her husband that she won’t get to keep. 

So, as Sylvain shimmies so that she’s laying on his shoulder, and his arms can touch the sides of her ribs, and Syl holds himself up over her, his arms resting just underneath her shoulders, Ingrid takes stock of everything she has.

Her body is a shaking, sensitive mess. Worse than when she was anxious and waiting for Sylvian to come home, every emotion she manages to feel is double or triple. The disappointment when Syl or Sylvain stops touching her, or the ecstatic groans as Syl begins a steady rhythm, building her up, each is a rush that sends heat through every part of Ingrid’s body. Every graze of a lip or a hand is electric, and Sylvain knows just how to stage them so that she can suck in a new lungful of air in between the low thud of Syl’s hip against hers , shaking the bed with a rumble.

Syl’s close, too, and she thinks they might come together. There’s sweat forming on his forehead when she looks back, and he has a look she hopes to never see again. His eyes are entirely focused on her, and despite the stoic way he’s keeping himself at bay, giving Ingrid every ounce of his desires, she knows behind it is the troubling truth that he’s the Sylvain that’s leaving her.

His hips roll into her as if this was the last time - as if he wanted to extend this moment as long as possible. As if he wanted to feel every inch of her. 

Sylvian’s mouth is by her ear, whispering encouragement.

“That’s it baby,” he says as Ingrid whimpers and mewls. “You’re so close.”

Ingrid loses the ability to speak when she turns back to Sylvain and shuts her eyes. All she can feel is Syl, his cock inside of her, his chest pressed against her back and the side of his shoulder. Sylvian’s hands cupping her breast, holding her hair out of her eyes. Both of them breathing down on her neck.

The words spill out of her seconds before her body ignites.

“Hold me please.” 

She feels Syl press his body against her, arm over her chest to pull her in close, and Sylvain put a hand on her waist, which is arched back to meet Syl’s thrusts, and then Ingrid is aware of nothing except the way her neck rolls back against the top of Syl’s chest and the way fire burns through her.

It’s as if her blood is aflame. Every beat of her heart echoes through her ears as tendrils of lightning reach every vein, from her hands to her shoulder blades to the bottoms of her toes, carrying pleasure like wildfire.

Ingrid sobs as the last hour of teasing, of realization and worry, of how  _ close _ her husband has been, and of how the two of them have taken her to the edge of what her body can handle collapse altogether. Her breath is a wheezy whine as her hips convulse and she feels the warm wetness of her folds clench and contract around Syl, each tremor another surge of flame through her body.

She shuts her eyes together so tight she sees white and her hands grip the nearest head of hair she can touch, nails digging into Syl or Sylvain’s scalp as she comes with a cry of Sylvain’s name, and she’s barely come down from the peak when a second hits.

Ingrid pants through as another roaring orgasm rips through her, stomach contracting so tight it almost hurts. Her legs kick out and straighten as her entire body goes stiff as wave after wave of pleasure, beginning with the way Slyvain’s hand has wrapped around her waist and started grinding on her clit, and ending when she can’t remember the last time she’s gulped air into her lungs. 

The searing, eye-rolling feeling that’s taken over her brain fades just enough that she hears Syl’s almost incoherent whisper in her ear:

“You feel so good Ing, I’m gonna come, I’m right there, I- Ingrid Ingrid Ingrid Ing…” 

The words break from his mouth in spurts as Ingrid feels him spill inside of her, his breath hot and his hips trembling as he buries himself to the hilt.

Sylvain’s rubbing her temples a few moments later, and she catches sight of Syl, who’s spent and collapses on her shoulder. It’s almost mournful, she thinks, to see him like this. A quiet goodbye to this copy, this version of her husband. 

For a few moments they lay there, breathing. Syl collapses on top of her, weight like a heavy blanket over her body and Sylvan adjusts so that she can lay one of her legs over his. 

Sylvain’s silent to her side, but she knows that he’s thinking the same thing she is: that if it were him disappearing, he’d want his last moments to be like this too. She’s thankful one of them will stay, that this isn’t a loss like what she’s always feared. But as the fog of pleasure begins to lift from her mind, and Ingrid’s tired body sinks into the mattress and her head finds a comfortable spot on Sylvain’s shoulder, all she can do is gather Syl in her arms and hold him before sleep comes to claim her. 

“You’re my husband and you’re not going to be here tomorrow,” she says, making eye contact with Sylvain as if to say,  _ let me care for this other you first _ . Sylvain nods, using a hand to ruffle Syl’s hair. 

“I love you Ingrid,” Syl says, and the way he says it burns into Ingrid’s memory. She never wants to hear this way of saying  _ I love you again _ , balanced between satisfaction and admission. 

“I love you Sylvain,” Ingrid says, letting Sylvain wipe her eyes before any tears can spill. “Any version of you, any way you cross my life. I will always love you.” 

She winds her arm tighter around him, pulling his head onto her chest. 

“My Ingrid,” Syl says, looking at her for a final time. His eyes are full of light, and exhausted. “Sleep.”

Ingrid nods and lets the exhaustion take her, and she falls asleep in the arms of her husbands.

By the time she stirs, there’s only one Sylvain in her arms, mouth pressed up against her neck, hot breath warming her body, and the phantom weight of his copy gone.

Ingrid tightens her embrace around Sylvain and lets a second wave of sleep claim her again. 

**Author's Note:**

> i am both extremely proud
> 
> AND
> 
> extremely embarrassed that i wrote this
> 
> please leave a comment for me though, this is prob the most i've worked on a fic outside of my longfic  
> RIP sylvgrid server


End file.
